Return to Sender
by KuroRiya
Summary: A collection of letters from the many different lives of Jean and Marco. This is basically letters from several different universes, all collected together. None of them are connected to each other, each chapter is a different universe. And it's a hurt fest. Like, none of these are happy. Written for the sad feelings.
1. Soldiers

Marco,

Armin said I should do this, because it's supposed to be a 'coping' mechanism, or something. I didn't actually listen. But why not?

You've been gone a while, so it must seem kind of strange that I'm doing this now. And why now? I don't know. Nothing particularly monumental happened today. The titans are still out there, still killing people, I'm still a soldier, Eren is still an asshole, Armin is still smarter than anyone, Mikasa is still scary and beautiful, Sasha still eats anything she can get her hands on, Connie is still bald, and you're still dead.

It feels like I'm the only one that's in this alone. Yeah, they're my friends, and I get that. But they aren't the same. I don't know what it was about you, but you got me. I could say anything, and you'd be alright with it. You were a bit blunt, but I think that's part of the reason we got along. Because, shit, I'm the epitome of blunt, right?

Right there. That's where I miss you. You'd have laughed at that, even though it wasn't really funny, or even a joke at all. But it was never fake, not once. What's up with that, you freak? You've got a really twisted sense of humor! It must be the freckles. Ymir's crazy too... Maybe I'm on to something.

Sorry, that's how I deal with things these days. I either punch Jaeger in his stupid Titan-shifter face, or think about something else. It helps, for a while anyway. I don't have anyone to actually listen to me anymore, so I don't have many outlets. I'm doing better lately, according to everyone else. I wonder if I'm doing better, or just becoming numb? I've seen a lot of numb soldiers, but I never believed that I could be one of them. I'm angry, and confrontational, and cynical, but numb? That's the last word I'd ever think of to describe myself.

But I can feel it sometimes. It starts in my fingers, and works its way up to my heart, until all I can do is move mechanically, slice at whatever is in front of me. I'm to the point where I don't even care if I make it back. Would it have been different with you still by my side? I'd be in the Military Police instead, probably trailing behind you like a puppy, because you know my lazy ass wouldn't take any initiative without you. And we both know you'd be working your ass off, making the best of the position, actually doing your job instead of taking it easy.

You're doing that now, I imagine. What's it like, not having to wonder where your next meal is coming from? Not having to wake up at the drop of a pin to make sure that it isn't a Titan in the distance, to make sure it's not another traitor, to make sure it's not another casualty? Not having to bite your hand till it bleeds in the middle of the night because you're trying to stifle your fucking sobs because some asshole up and fucking died without any explanation, and you have no other friends in the world. I can't tell you how many times Eren's tried to say that I'm jealous of his Titan-shifter power.

I'm not. But I wonder, if I could shift, would I have been able to save you then? Would you still be here, smiling at me, calling me a dork for lamenting about something so silly? It's not silly. Your life meant more to me than it probably meant to you. There's a lot I didn't have a chance to say to you, and that's part of it. I'd never met someone like you. No one's ever put up with my shit before. And then along came your freckled ass, and don't even try to deny that it's freckled, with your stupid friendly smile and understanding personality, and the patience of a saint. You fucked everything up. I could have managed training without making friends, without getting close to anyone, without getting hurt.

But no. You had to give me a chance. You had to sit with me, and eat with me, and let me shove your drink in your face, and still, you slept next to me, and kept me quiet when my pussy ass couldn't keep my feelings to myself, and you made me like you. Made me love you.

And what am I supposed to do with that now? You didn't even know. I never told you. I'm not going to lie and say that I was going to tell you the very next day. I don't need that bullshit hyped up drama. But I loved you. I had every intention of following you anywhere you went, until you loved me too. Maybe you already did. I'll never know. You'll never know.

I'll never know what it's like to hold you, to feel your warmth seeping through even my clothes, to kiss you. All I can have is this memory of you, broken, missing. I might remember the smiles, and the freckles, and the one-armed hugs, but those will never be the first or the last things I remember when I think of you. What sense is there in eradicating the world of Titans if you aren't here to share the victory with me? Well, fuck, who cares. I probably won't make it that long anyway.

Jean

A/N: So, I won't leave too many author's notes on this story, because I think that'll ruin the effect. But I want you to know what it's going to be before you hop in headfirst. Each chapter will be a letter written in a different universe. I started with canonverse, but the next one will be a totally different setting. None of these are connected to each other, and none of them are happy. I was in a special mood the past two days.

I just wanted you to know what this is going to be. You should give me feedback and tell me how I'm doing though, for sure.

KuroRiya  
九六りや


	2. Headlights

Hey babe,

I know you probably think it's stupid, because I know I do. But nothing else is helping, so I thought I'd try writing you a letter. Stupid or not, it's better than nothing. And I'm tired of nothing. It seems like that's all I've got these days, and I think that's a little unfair, don't you? I understand that I'm not some super fucking nice good Samaritan or whatever, but seriously? This is so below the worst that I can't even wish it on Jaeger, and you know how I feel about that kid.

I never realised how vast nothingness is. I'm sure, compared to what you're dealing with, my bitching must sound petty. But it's all I know, especially lately. What other way can I cope, than by being angry all the time? If I let myself be sad all hours of the day, I'd end up offing myself with some children's Motrin or some shit in a nameless gas station bathroom. You know that's how I'd go. I'm not lucky enough to have a cool death or anything. Nah, they'd have to get a crowbar and pry my cold-dead ass off of the sticky floor, covered in god-knows-what and pretty much every STD known to man.

I dream about you a lot. I'm sure you could have guessed that, huh? Most times it's not good, of course. A lot of them have me waking up in a puddle of sweat, screaming about semis and your arm. And I just think about how fucking ironic it is that your boyscout seat belt-wearing ass was the one that didn't make it out. For a long time, it was my fault. I shouldn't have assumed the truck would figure out that it was driving into oncoming traffic. I shouldn't have assumed the driver wasn't asleep. I shouldn't have assumed that the seat belt would keep you safe. I shouldn't have sat there freaking out about your arm instead of calling an ambulance. I should have saved you. I could have saved you.

That's what I used to think. And some of it is true, and I can't lie about that. A lot of it is my fault, honestly. But I've started to realise; I'm just a fucking kid. You were just a fucking kid. A good fucking kid, but just a kid. It's not fair to put that much weight on me, because a lot of it was out of my control. Maybe an adult would have handled it better. Maybe an adult would have been a better driver. Maybe an adult wouldn't have been out with their boyfriend at that hour. Maybe an adult would have gotten the airbag on the passenger side fixed. But I'm a kid. I didn't get the airbag fixed. I'm not a stellar driver. And you're dead. You'll never be an adult. You'll never get a car fixed, or even drive one, you no-license son of a bitch.

I guess I should be optimistic. You're supposed to be in a better place, according to everyone. It's funny how nobody gives two shits about god until someone dies. They all say that you're with angels, or in heaven, or whatever the fuck they decide will sound the most reassuring. But you didn't need to die to be an angel. You didn't need to do anything to be an angel.

There's not much else on the bright side, and that doesn't really count, does it? Well, I guess I can come away from it with the knowledge that I'll be the only person you ever loved. I'd like to think that would have been true either way, but you never know with life. It's a lot more flexible than death. But now I'll know, always, that it was only me.

I promise, it'll only be you.

Jean


	3. Freckles

Sweetheart,

So, week... Fuck, I lost count. Week 'too-damn-many.' I'm sick of this bullshit. I want to move up there, like, now. And I know, as soon as I call you tonight, and bring it up before you can even get this letter, that you'll yell at me... Well, pathetically choke out some kind of voice that is maybe an octave above your normal speech... That I need to finish school. But fuck, baby, you are so much more important to me. I literally couldn't give less of a fuck about sociology right now. I want to be there with you. I want to hold your hand while you sit in your room and watch bad daytime television. I want to count those cancerous assholes called freckles that I still can't hate, for some reason. And I want to rip that goofy hat off and kiss that freakish bald head of yours. I don't even care that you don't have hair. That's how much I love you. I want to be there when you're done with the chemo, so I can force feed you. Don't think I haven't noticed that you lost that pudge I love.

I'll buy you junk food or something. It'll be back in no time. And I can blow raspberries in it again. And it might take a while, but you'll be able to giggle again, I promise. I get it, you're tired right now, and laughing is hard. The smiles are plenty babe. And right now, even though I can't see it, I know you're going to read this letter and smile. I don't know why, but you seem to like me, for some reason. Not that I'm complaining, but shit, I'm pretty terrible. And you put up with me. Fucking angel.

Work has me really swamped right now, so I can't drive up for a visit till the weekend. And I feel like such shit. If I wasn't so worried about bills, I'd quit and come up right the fuck now. But I don't even have enough for gas to get up there. It'll have to wait till I get paid on Friday. Just a little longer, and I'll be there. I took a whole two weeks off to stay with you. Can you believe it? That asshat actually gave me time off without a fuss!

With any luck, I might find a job around your area, so I could just not leave. Fuck my degree. It can wait till you're better. We can finish up school together. But I'd rather not be in my thirties and trying to get in those last few classes, so let's keep our fingers crossed that you're out soon.

Anyway, I think that's enough for one letter. If writing back is too hard, then you can just call me when you get this. It was such a silly idea to start with, writing these letters. You're such a dork. I guess it makes the other patients jealous when you get a letter, huh? You probably show them off or something.

Okay, sorry, I'm really done. Love you baby, and I'll see you soon.

Love, Jean.

Mr. Kirstein,

We regret to inform you that the intended recipient of the enclosed letter, Marco Bodt, is deceased as of June 13 of the current year.

Our condolences,

Cancer Treatment Center of Inner Jinae


	4. New World

Hello love,

The doctor said I ought to give this letter writing a go, and who am I to argue? According to him, I don't even know proper English! Fancy that! These nutters across the pond are right obnoxious, and I'm nearly to my wits end. Armin has such an easy time of it, and I'm just plain knackered. I'm sure you'd be doing a bang up job too, if only you were here.

That's why I'm writing. Because you're not.

I think it right unfair that I'm stuck here, in this 'new world' without you. They always go on and on about how brilliant the Colonies are, but they need to come off it. Maybe I'm just bitter because I'm alone, but this place is just the same as home, with less tea and more bullocksae. It seemed a tad more promising with you on the horizon, but that ended up bonked.

And now I'm stuck here, fancy that. They don't want my sort back in Engerland. Thing is, they don't want my sort here either. These blokes don't take kindly to backticklers. It makes me a little glad that you never made it. I don't mean it the way it sounds, but this place is truly minging and I'm tired of it.

But I didn't mean to complain the whole time, believe me. I meant to tell you how much I love you, dearest. Even now. Maybe it's because I didn't see you after, but I still don't believe in this codswallop that you're dead. And I know I'm batty for denying it, but I just can't accept it. Not everyone on that blasted ship died, so why would you have to be one of those that did?

Unsinkable, they said. They were so cocksure. What twonks! She didn't even manage her maiden voyage. Unsinkable Titanic my arse!

Sorry, love. I should get back to work, or I'll be spending another night famished. I don't know if the letter helped with the sadness, but at least it gave me a chance to make my love official. It's all I really can do, after the fact. Wait for me in the new world, the real one.

Kisses,

Jean

A/N: I'm not British, please don't cause me bodily harm.


	5. Epidemic

Marco,

It's getting harder to ride the train every day. Stupid, right? It's just public transportation, for Christ's sake! But I'm always scared that it's going to be _that _train. The one I held you on, while you were shivering. It was getting pretty bad by then. You should have been in the hospital. I'm sorry that I didn't have the money to take you sooner. I know it wouldn't have saved you, but maybe you'd have made it a little longer. Maybe I could be talking to you right now instead of writing letters to your memory.

I've got it too, now. I don't say that to make you feel bad. You didn't know, it's not your fault. I just needed to tell someone. I don't want to tell any of the others. You and I both know they'd freak out and coddle me, since they didn't get a chance to do much of that with you before you were gone. I feel fine, for the most part. Depressed, of course, but physically I'm alright. But then, so were you, until those last couple of months. I never knew how scary it was.

Now that I know I'm positive, I wish you were still here even more. We could have lived with it together. We would have done great, at least for a while. You'd remind me to take my AZT, and I'd remind you to shave, you prickly idiot. You looked a lot better cleanly shaven. But I didn't know until after the fact. You didn't know until it was too late. Just our luck, right? It would figure.

I haven't taken a bath since you died. That's not to say that I don't bathe, I just shower instead. That's not a big change; I was never big on sitting in my own filth. But even looking at the tub brings enough tears to my eyes that I _have _to take a shower to hide them. I'm sure you remember having to take baths with me, because you couldn't do it yourself. I wonder how long you tried to do it yourself before you finally told me, how many times you passed out, sitting in a shower, or woke up nose deep in a bath, gasping and wondering when you passed out. I didn't mind helping you, I promise. It was actually pretty nice, getting to feel your weight against me, your back against my chest. It was reassuring. It let me know you were still there.

Same thing with the bed. I can't sleep on it anymore. No, I stick to the couch. How could I sleep in a bed that we shared for so long? A place where I held you, and kissed you, and made love to you. It was something precious, and I could never use it alone. Besides that, it smells just like you, and it's too much for me, especially when I'm trying to sleep. It's hard enough as is.

I probably won't go to the hospital, even when it gets bad. That's another place I avoid. Watching you die in there was too much. Even walking past it makes me uncomfortable. I broke Jaeger's arm, and, under normal circumstances, I'd have at least visited him to apologize. I may be an asshole, but even I know that I took it too far. But I couldn't get myself to go through the doors. I left the flowers at his apartment. He was discharged the next day, so I went and said sorry then, but the damage was done. I know now. I know how weak I am, how scared I am. All I can think about when I'm near the hospital is your face, so pale, hooked up to every machine they had in the entire place, probably. Maybe if Reagan had put a little more money towards the AIDS epidemic, you would have had a better chance. What's his problem, anyway? Just because we're gay doesn't mean we _deserve _to die miserable and sick. You couldn't even eat bread! That really fucks with me, more than you probably understand. I just wasn't prepared to see you like that.

The thing about it is, you were still beautiful. I still loved you, and wanted to kiss your dry, chapped lips, and hold your gaunt body. You were hardly there. There wasn't much of you left, yet I'd take anything I could get. It hit me, how much I love you. And now, I don't know what to do with that. I know I told you I loved you, and it was true when I said it. But now I've come to this shocking realization that I love you more than life, more than death. I love you even in your absence. What can I do with that? Where do I direct it? I love you so fucking much, and you aren't here to be loved.

All I have is the train, where I held you close to try and stop the shaking, glaring at anyone who dared call us faggots, dared to even look at us. And the bathtub, where you'd fall asleep against me while I scrubbed your balls. I wonder if you noticed that I paid special attention to those. And the bed that we shared that I can't use anymore, but will never throw out, because that's where we were the closest. And the hospital, where you took your last machine-assisted breaths. The hospital that I don't want to die in, alone, sick, and missing you. It's probably where I'll end up though. With the world's sick sense of humor, probably in the same room, the same bed, the same machine that'll force me to take that last breath before I'm with you again. Maybe the hospital isn't so bad after all.

See you soon,

Jean


	6. Disorder

Babe,

It's kind of weird of me to take the time to write a letter, just to leave it outside, laying on the ground. I've always kind of wondered why people think that things they leave on a grave will reach the person underneath. But I think it'd be weirder for me to just talk to myself or something, so letter it is.

I'm still in shock, probably. You disappeared so fast. Literally no one expected it. And that's maybe not entirely fair. I should have been paying more attention. I knew about the bipolar thing, and I knew it was about time for a low. I never dreamed that your low would be so bad though. I knew that you were touchier than usual, but I didn't know how bad you were hurting. I wish you'd talked to me about it, I really do. Maybe it wouldn't have made a difference, but now I'll never know.

Did you ever try talking to me? You probably did, and I fucked it up, somehow. That'd be just like me, right? But, then again, you tried to keep it to yourself as much as possible. I always knew, even before you told me, that your mood had definite swings. You were usually so sweet, and happy, and just glad to be around other people having fun. But you'd withdraw sometimes, or say something uncharacteristically nasty. I figured that you just ran out of nice, or something. But the times when you were super excited and silly, goofing off and laughing at literally everything did a really good job of distracting me from the times when you were feeling bad. I never guessed that your joy was a manic swing, or that your sadness was a depressive one.

It all made sense when you explained about the bipolar disorder. And, even though I wasn't 100% sure what that entailed, I didn't really care. Because you were a great guy, through and through. I mean, you put up with me being a total fucking asshole, so it seemed only fair that I put up with you when you were feeling low. And it wasn't that bad, really. Not until that last time.

I'm sorry that I got frustrated like that. I didn't mean to. I had a really shit day at work, and then I came home to you. I should have put the work day behind me. I should have grabbed you, hugged you hard enough to break a couple of ribs, and made you go to sleep with me. But instead, I screamed at you. I said things to make you feel even more like shit than you already did. I just wanted to make you hurt as much as I was. It was childish, and selfish. I knew that you didn't mean what you were saying. I left. I left you alone, while you were feeling like that, after I'd told you lies to make you feel even worse.

I'm miserable, every day. And I deserve every minute of it. I deserve worse. You should come haunt me, make my every waking hour living hell, keep me awake so there's more waking hours. Scream my words right back at me, tell me what a horrible boyfriend I am, how this is all my fault. It's true, and I deserve it, and more. But then, if you did haunt me, even if it was torture, I'd be a little happier. At least you'd be here.

I heard a lot of people complaining about your funeral being closed casket. I don't think they even understand how thankful they should be. It doesn't matter how well the coroner managed to clean you up, you'd never be Marco again. At least all of the people that attended your funeral will remember you as alive when they think about it. Even your parents didn't get it as bad as I did; They'd cleaned you up pretty well by the time they saw you. I guess it serves as a form of punishment, me being the person to find you, to see all of the blood, to see what you'd done to yourself.

It could have been funny, if it were in a movie or something. I had flowers, and chocolate, and every intention of giving you the best massage of your life to make up for the argument. And, just like a movie, I just stood there, gaping at you stupidly, clinging to the bouquet of already-wilting carnations and the little heart shaped box of chocolates. It was so much to take in, it was so unreal. This is probably a 'duh,' but that's the last thing I thought I'd see when I walked in. And then I dropped the stupid flowers, and held you instead. I didn't even manage to call the police for hours. I was too busy crying, and throwing up, and pressing my face into your chest.

I think your dad feels almost as guilty about it as I do, for leaving the door unlocked. You wouldn't have been able to get the gun if not for that. It's not his fault, though. It's mine. They don't talk to me anymore, your parents. I don't know if it's because it's my fault, or because I make them think of you. But I respect it. Your mom looks too much like you, anyway. It's hard to look at her. She still sends me a sweater every year, and cookies on occasion. The snickerdoodles that you always hated sharing with me. But we don't talk.

There are a lot of things I regret. One of them is not taking your disorder seriously. I should have suggested that you see a shrink, or something. Maybe it would have helped. Another is that I wasn't there when you did it. I know it wouldn't have made any difference, but at least you wouldn't have died alone. You'd have known that I was right in the other room, or even in the same one. And I would have at least been able to keep you from doing too much. Because you did a lot to yourself, babe. I don't even know how you managed it, or how you managed to pull that trigger, twice. If I shot myself in the arm, I think I'd pussy out. Maybe you did that to make a statement to me. Maybe you wanted me to hurt. And I do. I hurt a lot.

But the thing I regret the most is making you feel shitty enough to do it. The last thing I said to you wasn't "I love you," or even "I'll be back soon." No. I said terrible things, things terrible enough that you went to your parents' house, stole a gun, and fucking offed yourself. What were you thinking about when you pulled the trigger? Did you think I hated you, that I didn't love you, that I wanted you to do it? I didn't. I never would, never could. I love you more than I think you ever understood.

It didn't matter that you had mood swings. I'm an asshole 98% of the time, so I think it's plenty fair that you got angry at me every couple of weeks. It's natural to get angry, and feel sad, and feel frustrated. That's what being human is all about. I'm sorry that I wasn't sensitive enough though. I made a mistake when I couldn't afford to, and it cost me more than I expected. It cost me you.

Anyway, I just wanted to apologize. I don't know how the whole 'leave it on the grave' thing works. Maybe the words will soak into the ground, and into your body. Maybe your ghost will pick it up and read it. Maybe the words will find you, wherever you are in spirit. Or maybe it'll just get rained on and turn to mush, or blown somewhere far away by the wind, or trampled on by some other mourner, never read by anyone. I just needed to get it out, I guess. I love you, Marco.

Jean


	7. Memories

Hey Marco,

You don't remember me, and that's fine. It hurts, sure, but I'm used to it now. I'm used to you waking up, not knowing where you are, or who I am, or why you're in my bed, or when you turned twenty three. And you always run into the same room. That's why I leave the letters in here; I know you'll find them, because you always snoop around, trying to figure out who I am.

My name is Jean Kirstein, and we met about three years ago. I look pretty different, but you should have a few memories of me from the first few times we met. Well, we started dating after a while, and it was great for a long time. We get along really well, even though I'm an asshole and you're a saint. I'm not sure how you put up with me, but you do. We even started living together. Yeah. You woke up in our room.

Anyway, about a year and a half in, you got in an accident. It was pretty bad. Like, you got some severe brain damage. Thankfully, you recovered well. But there's some permanent memory loss. You'll never remember that first year we were together, a little before that. Your permanent memory stops somewhere after the third or fourth time we met. That's why I'm so unfamiliar.

You have what's called Anterograde Amnesia. You know that movie, _Fifty First Dates_? It's like that. Of course, it's not exactly the same, because our lives aren't a movie. You don't start over every day. Sometimes you only last a couple of hours before you forget everything, other times it's a couple of days. The doctors say that there is no 'normal' case. Some people forget things just a minute or two after they happen, so I guess we should consider this lucky.

So, now you know why you're in a house you don't remember buying, with a fiancee you don't remember proposing to, and years you don't remember entirely. You can keep reading letters, or you can come eat the breakfast that I'm making for you. It might take you a few minutes, but you'll get comfortable around me again. You usually start remembering a few snippets of our life together while you read these, and that helps.

When you do walk in, I'm going to tell you I love you, and sit you down at the island, and eat your cheesy eggs with you. That's what I do. I eat your food, and count your freckles, and love you more and more with every day. I'll never say that out loud, of course, but you ought to know. And you'll forget it soon anyway, so what's the harm, right?

Sorry, morbid joke. I'm an asshole. But I love you, and you're stuck with me. So come out, and make a few memories with me. You might not remember them, but I always will.

Love,

Jean


	8. Crinkled

Marco,

I never knew that you'd tried to commit suicide before. I never thought about it, really. You saved me, and that was all that really mattered. I meant something to you, and that was enough for me. I was stupid, and only thought about myself.

I should have known by the way you spoke to me. You knew exactly what to say. You knew how to coax me back behind the railing, and you knew how to keep me from going for it again. I didn't even know you, but you held me like you'd loved me your whole life. A stranger. A stupid one at that. Yet you made me feel like someone in this world wanted me here.

I thought, after I was put in the hospital, that I'd seen the last of you. Maybe that would have been for the best. But no, you came to visit me. You told me your name, and gave me company, gave me your time, and brought me junk food I wasn't supposed to have, and I thought to myself "Wow, I've finally made a friend."

That's all I wanted in the world. It was selfish of me, considering my bad personality. But everyone needs that person to be there for them. And, there you were. Smiling that bright smile and telling me stupid jokes. That was perfect. That was wonderful. I laughed at every single one. Because I was happy. Another attempt never even crossed my mind, even when you left. Because I knew you'd be back soon, to keep me company, to make me feel wanted.

You were too familiar with the hospital. That should have been another clue. You knew where the bathroom was, without asking. You would always leave five minutes before it was time for medicine or therapy. No one ever had to tell you to leave. You just knew. It was strange, sure, but I was too full of bliss to question it. I didn't even notice it at the time, not consciously.

I did notice the scars. I never brought it up, because I assumed you wouldn't want to talk about it. I guess I was wrong about that. Very wrong. But I could tell it was something you didn't like to think about. You made an effort to cover them up, so you didn't want anyone to see. I'm not sure which is braver; hiding them so no one questions it, dealing with your pain silently, or putting them out in the open, to show you aren't ashamed. You were though, I could tell. And you weren't the type that liked to have people worrying about you. So I didn't.

They were something that made you more like me, but they weren't something to pity. It was a coping method, and I knew plenty of people who had been there. It never dawned on me that some of those scars could have been from an attempt. I figured they were just the normal, need of control kind, or for relief. I've never cut myself, but I can understand the idea. None of them were new though, so I could tell you'd stopped. So, in my mind, you were fine.

And you were always so happy. You would grin as soon as you saw me, and wrap me up in one of your famous Bodt hugs, and laugh at the faces I'd make. And I know better than to think that happy people aren't suicidal, but I just couldn't imagine you like that. It seemed like you genuinely loved being alive, being with me. I felt needed, and I'm sure you knew that you were too.

I fell in love with you pretty quick. It was a matter of when, not if. I think I knew, as soon as you pulled me over that rail and held me. I knew that I wanted you in my life, permanently. I just wasn't sure how, not then. But I figured it out fast enough. I'm not sure when exactly, but sometime between you buying me a bag of Funyuns and holding my hand while I threw up in the bathroom from eating too many Funyuns. (They seriously didn't mix well with my antidepressants.) And I just sort of... Knew. It was probably the fact that I had the sudden urge to kiss you till you turned blue that gave me a hint.

But I was scared. I finally had what I needed; I had a friend, someone who cared about me, that wanted me to live. And I didn't want to mess that up. I knew that you were a great guy, but it's hard to stay friends when it gets out that someone is crushing. It's just too awkward. And I was scared to lose you, so I kept it quiet.

That was the biggest mistake I think I've ever made. I wish I'd just opened my stupid selfish mouth and told you how much I wanted to kiss every freckle on your body. Even the butt freckles. If you think I'm fucking kidding, you have another thing coming. But I didn't. I just thought about your butt freckles, and wished I could make out with you on the couch in the visiting room.

And then you were gone. I wish your parents hadn't brought me your letter. I wish I could look them in the eye and say it wasn't my fault. But it is. And they hate me, they really do. They hate me enough that they left that letter with me, and there it sits, crinkled and soggy on my bedside table. I lost track of which tears were yours and which were mine.

You loved me too. You tried to tell me, and I just laughed it off. Why did I laugh it off? I got so excited when you said it, but it was too perfect. What had I ever done to deserve someone like you? So I took it as a joke. I laughed. I hurt you, cut you deeper than you ever had with a razor. You tried though, tried to cut deeper. And I guess you cut deep enough, because now you're gone, and I'm here with my guilt and a letter.

I've read it so many times that I have it memorized. Every word, every single letter. You worded it nicely, but I know what you were really saying. You felt betrayed, you felt hurt. It was my fault. You felt unneeded, unloved. It was my fault. It's all my fault. I should have noticed that you were just as bad as me, that you'd attempted it before. I was too blind to see it, and I was blind on purpose. I didn't want to think about your pain. I was stupid and scared and selfish, and couldn't be for you what you were for me.

I was too scared of losing you to save you. And I don't know what would have become of you or me if I had said something. I don't know what would have happened if I'd taken you seriously. Maybe you'd have still done it anyway, or maybe not. Maybe you'd be laying here in bed with me, sipping at some of your fruity Snapple shit and laughing at a dumb pun I'd made. Or maybe there would be a different letter on my bedside table. I don't know. All I know is life's too short to be so scared, so hesitant.

I should have said something. I should have loved you. You should be alive, and here, with me. But you aren't. All I have is some sad words, blurred against crumpled paper. Your last words.

These aren't mine. I'm going to stay alive, and remember you. You'll live on that way. That's the least I can do for you. And I promise, I'll never love anyone else. I don't deserve it. No, I'll save it for when I get where you are. I hope you're ready for it.

Love,  
Jean


	9. Moosetracks

Dearest,

Life is hard without you. I know you would have wanted me to go on without you, and that's why I'm still going. But it's hard. Getting up is hard, especially when I know it should have been you that survived. It was my fault that you got hurt, and I'm so sorry. I'm thankful, of course. I know you did it because you love me. But I still feel guilty. It was supposed to be me.

Armin talks with me about it a lot. I think that helps, even though it keeps it fresh. Maybe it's because it keeps it fresh. He's really understanding, and doesn't get fed up with me when I get angry, or when I shout, or have a breakdown. He just waits it out with me, and makes sure I get home safe, makes sure I'm actually asleep before he leaves.

Right now my psychiatrist is trying to wane me off of the sleeping pills. I've been sleeping significantly less though, so I don't know if that's actually going to happen. The less pills I take, the more I dream about you, you falling instead of me, you bleeding instead of me, you dying instead of me. You just had to be a hero, didn't you?

I'm not actually mad at you, not usually. I'm mostly mad at myself. For being clumsy, for being stupid, for letting you get hurt, for letting you take my place. It wasn't yours to take. I guess you were a little more selfish than I gave you credit for.

I hope you knew how much I loved you. I still love you. You made it pretty obvious how much you love me, but I wonder if you know that I'd do the same for you. I'd gladly take your place. I'll never have that chance, but I'd take it if I could. Even now, I'd be happy to take your place, buried in the ground. It doesn't work that way though, so I'll settle with living on, and remembering you.

My shrink was the one who suggested I try writing these letters to you. I thought it was a really silly idea at first, but it might actually be helping a little. If I force myself to write a letter to you, then I'm forced to think of things to write. It helps me with remembering the good times, even if I still think about the bad too. I remember when you asked me out, and your face got so red I thought you'd blow a gasket or something. And that time that we went to the park and got questioned about homosexuality by a couple of ten year olds. That was interesting. And the time you bought me an entire freezer of moosetracks icecream when my grandfather died, and held me till I passed out from exhaustion.

Your body is still the first memory, and the last one. But at least I have those good ones in between, right? Well, I'm getting through each day, which is more than I could have asked for a year ago. But I think that's enough for one letter, don't you? I love you, and I hope I'll be able to tell you just how much, one day.

With love,

Marco


End file.
